‘Always believe things can get better, and they might,’ Mother liked to insist, after we moved from the top half of a house we shared with my grandparents and their canary to a single room with the great loom in the corner where it could catch light from the window.
They did not get better for her, of course. Unless she is in Heaven with the angels. I like to think she is, but hope she is not looking down on what I have become.
I think of Thomas whenever I take my book from the rush basket to read, grieved that its pages are already speckled by damp. I wonder what he does on his farm in this snow, with his milking cows snug in their byre, eating their turnips. I am convinced he was the man who horsewhipped Chalke and hope it proves he did not think I had gone with my master willingly.
I do not expect he would recognise me now. I glimpsed my reflection in a cheval glass yesterday, slanted in a milliner’s window. I had not seen myself in a looking-glass for months and was shocked to realise the ragged girl with sunken cheeks was me.
I think of the Chalkes and still hope that the law might catch up with them. But there is no news and I have the copper coin taste of fear in my mouth. If they have been questioned, but not arrested, might they be looking for me? What if Jack has told them what an avid reader I was? But I dare not think that, for my only defence is hiding under Doggett’s stairs.
Now, when there is that strange fluttering inside me, I sense a difference in my feelings towards the child. Not tenderness, but something close to compassion. It is, after all, one of God’s creatures and, like me, was powerless against its destiny. I pray it will have the good fortune to be a boy, with better opportunities.
Peg still worries, now she is about to leave the Chalke house and share my straw pallet.
‘I wish you would let Farmer Graham help you.’
‘He thinks me a whore.’
‘Does he?’ She rummages in her skirts and holds out a fold of grubby and crumpled paper. Taking it from her, I feel something hard and round inside. ‘If that is true, why did the lad who brings the milk ask me to get this to you?’
When I break the seal two bright sovereigns fall into my palm. They are wrapped in a letter.
Broad Oak
Hannah,
I have learned of your plight and am ashamed for my sex and for not taking steps to protect you when I could.
But there is a place of safety here for you now, in Betty’s cottage. For you and Peg, both.
My wagon travels its habitual route every morning, and though it no longer stops at your old workplace, Ruben has instructions to carry you back here with him whenever it suits you. Simply present yourself to him.
Alternatively, business affairs bring me into town on the first Monday of each month and I leave your friend Calypso outside The Red Lion in the middle of the day.
What is enclosed with this note represents an advance for giving lessons to the children in my village. Something I know you will enjoy doing. So do not look upon it as charity.
Please allow me the honour of being of assistance to you.
Your respectful servant
Thomas Graham
Peg and I stare at the coins. Enough to cover the rent until the child comes. And more, besides.
I frown at the stained and crumpled parchment.
‘How long have you had this, Peg?’
‘Not long.’ She squirms and avoids my eye. ‘I guessed them was coins in there. Not sovereigns, though.’ She looks up, shamefaced. ‘I suppose I was tempted. Because of that debt. But I didn’t touch it.’
I squeeze her arm. ‘You owe the Chalkes nothing, Peg. Remember? I have that surgeon’s note. But I don’t blame you for holding back the letter. It is in my hand now. Though, sadly, you must take the money back.’
‘Why? What does your farmer say?’
‘Foolish things. The man is losing his reason.’
‘You are the one whose mind has gone. That will keep Doggett off your back till your time comes, and beyond.’ She digs the jar out of the straw and holds it up to jingle the coppers it contains. ‘How long will this last?’
I sigh and drop the sovereigns inside. She is right. This good man’s generosity will keep us off the streets. I must keep it, but there is no way I am seeking out his wagon to take my sorry self to his farm. At least not until after the child is born.
I would burn with shame for Thomas to see me now. We are so short of money I was thinking I would have to sell my precious book. Reading has always been my escape, now more than ever, and the thought of sacrificing Aesop’s Fables has been bitter.
Peg scurries off, after another scrubbing job for when she abandons the Chalke house. Perhaps after settling the rent, buying food and having my boots mended I could make more lavender bags. Buy an old table to work on and maybe a brazier in which to burn scavenged wood. And I shall need to make myself a respectable dress, for when I look for work after the birth. Two guineas should be enough, if I am careful.
But why is there still no news about the Chalkes? The new maid, Sara, having been warned by Peg, has sent her young sister off to a cousin in Highgate and plans, herself, to leave long before Lady Day. Peg says there is no other news of interest. Why has nothing happened? What is Sir Christopher thinking of?
Chapter Sixty-One
Peg alarms me again by pushing wearily through the door next morning, shaking snow from her clothing.
‘They have gone,’ she says.
I start up from where I was failing to get comfortable on the straw, fuddled. She has never come this early before.
‘Who has gone?’
‘The Chalkes. Those men come back, last night. Sounded like they would bring down the front door with their fists. They were wearing dark greatcoats again, but you could see the liveries underneath and one flashed a gold ring, when he took off his gloves.’
She flops down beside me.
‘The master was shouting and cursing. The mistress was screeching, too, her face as red as a slapped arse. But the men took no notice. Pack one bag apiece, they said. And quick about it.’
She leans back against the warm bricks.
‘There was a scuffle, but they was carried off, regardless. In a closed carriage.’
So, Sir Christopher has finally called the law down on those two. It seems forever since I penned my letter. Perhaps the pair of them are even now in Newgate. Chained to a wall. The news is more satisfying than a hot meal.
‘Were there constables with them?’
‘There was not. Just the men who come with the brother that other time.’ Peg gestures to the bundle she has brought with her, dropped inside the door. ‘One of them said Sara and I should clear off as soon as it was light, so I brought my stuff.’ She looks around. ‘I’ll be sharing this place with you from now on.’
If no constables were involved this is not what I intended. It does not feel like justice. Have the Chalkes been taken to some place of safety and discretion? Might those men in greatcoats come after me now?
Peg frowns down at me.
‘You all right? No more of them cramps?’
I shake my head. Discomforts are normal. But I decide to seek Nellie’s advice about new lodgings. Well away from here. And Thomas’s generosity means I could also give her a small gift, if we are to move away. She has been so kind-hearted towards me that she deserves something.
‘Peg, could you slip out and fetch an ounce or two of tobacco for Nellie?’ I count coins from our jar, comforted by the glint of the sovereigns at the bottom. ‘And three hot meat pies for our breakfast?’
Looking around after she has gone my heart sinks when I remember the night soil bucket waiting to be emptied, for I prefer taking it outside when there is nobody to see. But the stench is such that I grab it and lug it up the stairs. At least, after it is emptied, we will be able to properly enjoy our meat pies. Afterwards I will huddle down in the straw and try to rest. Tomorrow I think I might have my boots repaired.
Trudging back with the emp
ty bucket, minutes later, I am nearly pushed over on the stairs by a scrawny youth in a hurry to get out of the house. He looks shifty, like so many of those who come and go in this dreadful place, but I am careful to ignore him. Most of my neighbours would knock you down as soon as look at you.
But when I reach the cellar, the door stands wide open. Because of being distracted by Peg’s news, I had not used my key when I went out with the bucket.
I know from the scattered straw what has happened. The youth was after food, I expect, but found our secret hoard. The jar is still there, but empty. A screw of paper containing several ounces of dried peas has also gone. All that is left is the rush basket, some ragged stockings and, for some reason, my precious book.
I refuse to break down and wail, in case I never stop. This is cruelly unfair, but I cannot afford to let it destroy me. Tomorrow I will go back to that trader and exchange my gown for the cheapest he has. My wool shawl is long gone, but those darned stockings can be sacrificed as well. No matter if I have no change of clothing, since nothing can be washed anyway.
In the cramped booth behind the second-hand clothes stall, my nostrils fill with the stink from heaps of ragged garments piled on the trestle tables: for men on one side, women on the other. Some are limp and torn, others stiff with grease. All surely fit only for rag, yet destined for the backs of the poorest of the poor. Like me. My self-respect has withered and I know I cannot expect to retrieve it until after this wretched child is born.
Chapter Sixty-Two
I am plodding to the market next day, eyeing the rubbish and slush for pickings, when I recognise angel-bright hair ahead of me. It is Jack. Strolling in the winter sunshine. Presumably Chalke’s brother’s men were not interested in him.
Might he help me? Or at least tell me something about what has happened? I despise myself for the childish dreams that I had before I realised the handsome youth is as corrupt as the rest of them.
I hate him seeing me like this, but cannot be proud with my money gone and things looking so bleak. This young man is not as bad as the others. He was probably led astray at an early age by his beast of an uncle. He might even feel he owes me a kindness, after lying to Thomas about me encouraging Chalke.
I pull my patched gown into a better semblance of respectability and catch up with him.
‘Jack…’
I notice a button hanging off his coat. His hair looks unwashed. The ribbon restraining it, frayed. This is a different Jack from the immaculate young man I remember.
‘You again.’ His nose wrinkles. ‘What an unsightly lump you have become.’
‘I need work, Jack. Could you help me?’
I am tempted to accuse him of losing me that precious job with Mistress Haggerty, though I did trick him about Black Spur and reminding him could make him angry. He might still have those golden looks, but I know him to be more devil than angel.
The brows rise over those sapphire eyes. Any suggestion of friendship between us gone.
‘What do you think I could do? Uncle and I have our own troubles.’ His mouth turns down. ‘We were plagued by snooping constables and forced to close Mistress Jarrett’s establishment. And even the printing business.’ He scowls. ‘Some busybody laid information about us. But they will sorely regret doing so, when we winkle them out.’
This at least is welcome news. That the awful brothel has been closed and the lewd books stopped. Yet Jack and his uncle walk free. And the Chalkes have perhaps been smuggled away by his titled brother.
Then my stomach lurches, for Jack knows I can read. It would not take much for him to suspect me.
‘Uncle Twyford struggles to turn a guinea these days.’ Jack kicks at a blown apple in the gutter, exploding its rottenness like a pettish boy. He scowls. ‘Chalke, naturally, seems to have taken himself off to safety in Ireland. Men like him are never held to account.’
He stares at me. ‘We are both short of prospects, are we not?’ He scratches a chin that has not been shaved for days. ‘After you are rid of your brat, assuming you regain your looks, how would it be if I found you a protector? Some generous gentleman to set you up in lodgings and pay for your favours.’ He peers at me, uncertain. ‘You are still comely and we could pass you off as a virgin. There are ways to deceive a man.’ He moves a fraction away. ‘Though you would need a damn good scrub first.’
I am demolished. If I did not have a child to live for, I would sink down into the melting snow and pray for death. I am defenceless, as I have been since Mother died. I am despised. I am being offered a future as a prostitute. And I stink.
‘Anyway, Hannah, I cannot stand around consorting with beggars. I am meeting someone.’ His hand reaches into his waistcoat pocket, idly turning the coins he finds there while deciding whether to be generous. ‘Here.’ Two pennies are pressed into my hand. ‘But do not trouble me again while you are in that sordid state.’
Then he hesitates, and his brows meet as he studies me.
‘You think yourself something of a scholar, do you not? Does that mean you can write, as well as read?’
‘A few simple words only.’ I make myself meet his gaze, but he still looks thoughtful.
‘And you live around here?’
‘Yes.’
‘When is the bastard due?’
‘In a few weeks.’
‘Well, think about my proposition. I doubt I will be selling books much longer and another means of earning might be useful.’
Then he strides off. Glad to be rid of me.
I study the coins, which represent a penny loaf and a wedge of cheese. Perhaps even some raw onions. Enough to feed Peg and myself for several days. Beyond that, we will be going hungry.
Things must have happened since my letter was delivered and I am pleased that the place above the snuff shop has been closed. Yet Jack said nothing of arrests. Has that great lord silenced Sir Christopher? Will Chalke and his wife be living in comfort in Ireland, perhaps even pursuing their foul trade there?
I hurry to make my purchases and an old wife in the market with sympathy in her eyes, wraps my cheese in fresh cauliflower leaves. The rags I have wound around my hands, for warmth, conceal the lack of a wedding ring.
Weary, I return to our cellar. My legs and back ache and I will be glad to rest in my borrowed chair while I nibble some of the cheese. If only I had a fire to cook on. But at least I have the onions. I have a craving for them, sliced and sprinkled with vinegar. I might ask Nellie if she has any to spare.
Leaving the market, I noticed two figures standing close together in conversation beside a stall offering dried fruits for sale. A man with bright hair and a young lady with prominent teeth, wearing costly clothes. It was Jack, his arm tight around the girl’s waist, while she gazed adoringly into his eyes. From the muted, companionable laughter I guessed it must be the cousin.
I remember his sneer. What in God’s name would I want with a girl who looks like a horse? Who has never opened a serious book in her life? But I suppose if the bookshop might not survive, betrothal to a girl with some money might secure his future.
How different he is from Thomas, who has been like the brother I lack. Is it too late to try and contact him? To let him help me? I would be tempted if I were not such a lice-ridden bundle of rags. And if I had not so foolishly lost his guineas.
Chapter Sixty-Three
I want this thing over with, and to survive. Women of childbearing age carry death as well as life in their wombs. To perish while giving birth is commonplace. Too often one sees a large coffin, with a smaller one balanced on top, being conveyed to the graveyard. Perhaps that would be the easiest thing for me. After the pain and struggle, my mother’s end had been peaceful. Almost.
Her face took on a strange pallor in her last hours, like cheap candle wax. Her eyes were staring, fixed on something other than her gathered family. The metallic smell of blood in the room was strong. The midwife shaking her head. The dead creature in the basin, under the linen cloth, with tiny t
ranslucent fists clutching at a life it had failed to grasp.
It is part of life for women to have babies and often die from bearing them. If not from the first, from the second or the tenth. There is nothing to be done about it. In the way that men go to war and sometimes fail to return, childbed for women can be a forced march into danger.
If I die it might be for the best, but I am afraid of what would happen, after. A tumbling descent into a flaming pit? Did I tempt Master Chalke without realising it? Churchmen would likely say so.
I have not been inside a place of worship since Christmas, when I crept into a pew one morning, but even though there were no other worshippers and the building echoed with emptiness, I was conscious of being a fallen woman in a sacred place. I suppose I should accept my tarnished soul and pray for forgiveness. Yet I cannot understand how God could have looked down on what happened that night, and turned away.
Better if I survive. I thought I had grown up at ten, but I was wrong. I know now that there are even worse things than dirt, hunger and injustice. And I do not want to die without having lived at least a little.
The child grows monstrous in my belly. It must be feeding on me, for one scavenged meal a day cannot be enough nourishment for both of us. I am nothing but limbs thin as sticks and a stomach that gets in the way when I tie my boots. Sometimes I raise my shift and study my distended belly, patterned with blue veins. Occasionally now I wonder if the baby means to kick its way out of me. It will come soon. Only after it does, if I survive and give it into the charge of others, can I hope to retrieve my life.
Yet when I trace the outline of what might be an arm and it responds with what feels like a deliberate push, I feel a bond with the unwanted creature. It did not seek its beginning and I remember Mary at the poorhouse, who had never known her mother. Might my child grow up like her? Let it be a boy, I pray. Nellie thinks the way I carry my burden means it will be, and I tell myself she knows about these things.
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